


Mollcroft Prompts

by Iolre



Series: The Minor Key Prompts [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Reichenbach Feels, flower shop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Mollcroft drabbles I've written and posted to my prompts tumblr. Various situations, from fluff to crack to smut to anything I'm prompted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all.
> 
> This is going to be a compilation of the Mollcroft prompts given to me at my [prompts tumblr](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com) where I take prompts for minor pairings. Feel free to shoot me one if you want to see more Mollcroft (or any other 'rare' pairing)!
> 
> Prompt: Flower shop Mollcroft AU - Every sunday, there's a gentleman in grey three piece suit who buys flowers from Molly. He comes in every week like clockwork and bought a bouquet. The man has a ring on his finger, but when Molly asked if the flowers are for his wife, he said no. Eventually he tells her the flowers are for his little brother's grave. One day the man buys a single pink rose. Smiling, he said his brother is no longer dead. Instead he gives the rose to Molly and ask her out for dinner.

The first time she sees him, she blushes and stammers, but he is still so kind. He comes each week like clockwork, dressed in his impeccable three-piece suits, and buys a simple bouquet, then leaves. It takes three weeks before Molly is brave enough to ask him his name. Mycroft Holmes. Three months later, she asks him about the ring on his finger. He smiles, and tells her that no, there is no wife. The flowers are for his little brother, who passed away. She stammers, apologizes, expressing her condolences. As the weeks pass, the sadness is lifted, replaced by her giggles and blushes, laughter and levity.

Sometimes he lingers, leaning on her counter, watching intently as she makes the flowers. They talk, sometimes, about the weather, about the flowers, about her. She tells him her life story, and in return, she learns a bit more about him. Mycroft is the oldest of two, and interested in politics, in travel. He tells her about places he has been, and places he wants to go. About governments and the people they govern. It is like school, but Molly loves it. She always loves learning.

After six months, he asks her to teach him how to make a basic bouquet. Part of her worries that he does not want to come back. He stands close to her, watching her hands and the way she picks the flowers. She explains what she is doing and why. Tells him what each flower means, teaches him their names, in both the common and scientific language. Mycroft watches her, that soft smile on his face, and by the end of the day, he has his bouquet and promises to come back the next week.

It is nearly a year, since the first time he walked through her door, and little has changed. He looks haunted, when he comes in, his face cloudy until he spots her. Then he smiles, and it is like a cloud is lifted. It makes her heart thump in her chest, makes her tongue clumsy, makes her palms clammy. It strikes her that she has fallen in love with this man, with Mycroft, and that was never her intention. He is too good for her, too far above her level. She is a simple florist. He is something so much more.

This time, he comes in with a smile. There is no cloud. Molly is apprehensive; although she is glad he is happy, she would rather he be happy with her, and she misses the way his face lights up at her smile. This time, when she mentions his bouquet, he shakes his head. His brother is alive, he says, and the bouquets are no longer needed. Molly smiles, and tries not to give away how much her heart is breaking. How much she loves their time together, how much she loves seeing his face.

Instead she smiles and says that she is happy. That she is glad. Mycroft requests one last flower - a single pink rose - and her heart falls further. It is surely for someone else, the one that has managed to capture his heart. Something she did not manage. Something she would always regret. Molly fetches the flower, carefully wraps it, thinking all the time about how much his intended will love it. For once, she tries to be happy, and fails. Her smile is weak as she hands him the flower and takes his money one last time.

She waits for him to turn around and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands there with the flower in his hand, and his soft, kind smile on his face. He takes a deep breath, and seems to steady himself, grow more confident, and tells her he has a question, a favour to ask.

Molly stares at him, her eyes wide, but manages to ask him what it is. Her voice is higher than she would like. Breathless. She is nervous.

For a moment, his facade breaks, and his weight shifts from leg to leg. Mycroft is, at least briefly, achingly human, as nervous as she is, and she relaxes, comforted. He explains that he has a work event, a dinner, and it would be more bearable, with someone by his side. The rose is offered to her with a bow, and Molly is as pink as the rose he is holding. He tells her it is for her, if she wants it. That he would love her company, for the dinner and many more.

He tells her that he has wanted her for a long time, that he has loved her from afar, that she is everything good in the world. Molly does not know what to say, and she is shaking so much she can barely take the rose from his hands. She clutches it to her chest, a security blanket, as he straightens and steps closer.

Mycroft is much taller than she is, and she looks up at him, her throat dry. She does not know what to say, or whether he wants her to say anything. Or if there is anything to say. He leans down, slowly, his eyes on hers, as he checks to make sure that this is something she wants, something she desires. Their lips touch, and the kisses are chaste at first, light and gentle. Then Molly lifts herself up on her tip toes, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and kisses him for all she is worth. He kisses back, matches her enthusiasm, and her head is spinning.

They break apart, and Molly is not sure what to say. He offers her his card, tells her to call him, and gives her one last kiss. His smile is warm and sweet, and he assures her that she will see him soon.

Molly presses her fingers to her lips, her cheeks bright pink, and ends up sitting in a swoon on the floor, the rose still clasped in her hand.


	2. Through The Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really based off of a prompt, I just felt like writing Mollcroft. So...enjoy!

The first time Mycroft saw Molly, he thought nothing of her. Mousy and nondescript, she was nothing unique, nothing vibrant. She was a part of Sherlock's puzzle, that was all. She wasn't anything more. So when he had Anthea escort her to the warehouse after work, he wasn’t expecting anything. Maybe she would be like the others, say yes, take the money. Maybe she wouldn’t. He didn’t particularly care.

He stood there, looked imposing, and watched as she tremulously stepped closer. She was uncertain, yes, intimidated, but not unduly afraid. “Why did you let Sherlock Holmes into your laboratory?” he asked, leaning on his umbrella and pretending that the question was of no great importance.

Her face shifted. Changed. Became soft and sweet. Mycroft felt instinctively drawn to her, like he wanted to go over there and pull her into his arms. Like distress was something she should never feel again. “He looked so sad,” she said, and her voice was quiet, plaintive.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What do you mean?”

Molly panicked, for a moment. It was obvious in her eyes. “Well, he might have been a bit abrasive, really, but when he looked away, or when he stopped talking…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged. She wasn’t looking at Mycroft, not anymore. “He changed, a bit. He hides it, but he’s hurting.”

“Very perceptive, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft pulled the little notebook out of his breast pocket, consulted it. “However, you are aware you can be fired for such a misuse of hospital property?”

Molly lifted her head and squared her shoulders. “Yes.”

Mycroft studied her for a few moments. She was nothing like he had expected. “I am prepared to offer you a substantial amount of money in exchange for information about Sherlock Holmes.”

This time, she frowned. “Who are you?”

“No one of consequence.” Mycroft smiled his bland smile.

“No.” She cut him off before he could speak again.

“You haven’t even heard the offer,” he pointed out.

“I don’t need to.” Molly stared him down. She wasn’t very frightening, no, but she was stronger than he had thought. Interesting.

“Very well.” He inclined his head slightly, dismissive. “My assistant will take you wherever you need to go.”

As Molly slid into the car, Mycroft pulled out his mobile and began typing out instructions. Surveillance on Miss Hooper, round the clock. Official permission was to be granted, unofficially, to Sherlock, allowing him to enter and exit the lab with minimal supervision. This would ensure that Molly would not get into trouble as a result of his actions. Mycroft wasn’t quite sure why it mattered, but it did.

For weeks he watched her, between various small matters in small countries. He spent too much time watching the way she moved, the autopsies she did, how she blushed and stammered and got flustered whenever Sherlock talked to her. Mycroft wasn’t jealous, there was no way he was bothered by her obvious attraction to Sherlock. Everyone was attracted to Sherlock, it was a simple fact of life. Sherlock had been manipulating people with his looks since he was a child.

The clench in his heart whenever Molly blushed and looked away, or bit her lip - that was nothing. It was an inconvenience. The urge to step in and protect her whenever Sherlock lashed out at her - that was inconsequential. A habit, developed from intervening with Sherlock’s nannies when he was throwing a tantrum. The fact he would take time away from his duties, and stand near the screen and observe the autopsies she conducted - merely fact-gathering. They were Sherlock’s cases, and it was in Mycroft’s best interest to be aware of what his little brother was up to.

Even if he did happen to be interested - and he wasn’t - Miss Hooper’s interest in Sherlock was as plain as the nose on her face. Mycroft knew he didn’t stand a chance. There was no point to wanting what he could not have. Besides, he didn’t want to risk Sherlock’s newly found, tenuous stability. So he stood to the side and let events progress as they would.

That meant, three months later, he stood and stared in horror at the monitors as Molly was rolled out of her home, into the ambulance, taken to the hospital. No. She had to be okay. He gripped the desk tighter, stared intently at the monitor as if that would change anything. Quickly he dialed Anthea and demanded an update on her condition as soon as one was available. He would beat Sherlock there, not that he mattered. All he wanted was to ensure her safety.

The trip to the hospital was not quite as restful as Mycroft had hoped. His legs bounced incessantly, fingers drumming out erratic patterns on his kneecap as his stomach did acrobatic flips. He wasn’t nervous. That was a ludicrous idea. He was merely - anticipating successful news that she was going to be well and that his worries were unfounded.

None of that stopped him from buying her a bouquet of flowers before he headed up to her hospital room. He stood at the door, suddenly paralyzed by nerves. Would she remember him? Would she order him out? Their interaction in the warehouse had been the only one. What was he doing? Suddenly Mycroft realized exactly how horrible his plan had been. Poorly thought out. Not like him at all.

“Are you going to stand there like a wall?” the cheerful DI asked as he left the room. Mycroft stared at him for a second before regaining his composure. Lestrade, Mycroft remembered. Sherlock worked with him quite often. “She’s okay. Go in, say hi.”

Mycroft’s mobile buzzed, and after nodding politely to the stranger, he pulled it out of his pocket.

‘Don’t be stupid. SH’  
‘She’s as infatuated with you as you are with her. SH’

Mycroft blinked. She didn’t really know him, not at all. Still, he had went all the way over here. The least he could do was place the flowers in the room. Maybe she would be asleep, and he wouldn’t have to face her. Yes, that was certainly it. Cautiously he took the first step into the room, then the second, sweeping aside the curtain to reveal Molly laying quietly on the hospital bed. “Hello?” he said haltingly.

Molly looked at him, and immediately her cheeks were tinged a faint pink. Mycroft stood there, staring at her. For all that he was a grown man, capable of negotiating complex treaties between war-torn countries, he had utterly no idea what to do in this situation. “Mr. Holmes.” Molly’s smile was wane, tired. She looked weary.

“You may call me Mycroft.” He was wary to step forward, but his legs moved without his permission. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a small grouping of flowers near the windowsill. “May I add this bouquet to the display?”

“Can I see it first?” she asked hesitantly, her hands reaching out for it.

He swallowed, and then nodded, moving closer to her in order to place the bouquet in her grip. “I felt the flowers might suit you.”

“I haven’t seen you, since that night,” Molly said simply, examining the bouquet with bright eyes. She had an IV in her hand, an inhaler on the rolling table next to her. “Sherlock says you’re not very social.”

That caught Mycroft’s attention, and he looked at her, startled. Sherlock talked about him? “My work occupies much of my time.” Her face clouded for a brief moment, and Mycroft kicked himself. “However, there is time for events that I find worthwhile.”

“What do you do?” Molly asked hesitantly, almost shy. “Sherlock won’t say.”

“Just minor things, here and there.” Mycroft glanced around. It was different, seeing her in person, instead of through the monitor of the CCTV cameras. He liked it.

“There’s a chair, just to the side.” Molly pointed it out. “You can sit next to the bed, if you want.” Her smile, her voice - she was hopeful. She wanted him to stay.

Mycroft hesitated, just for a second. The decision was far more than whether or not to sit in a chair by her bed. It meant things, had implications. He grabbed the chair, placed it by the side of the bed, and sank down into it with a smile.


End file.
